


I've been staring at the sun

by Anonymous



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Gen, Post-Narnia, Prompt Fill, The Problem of Susan, let me tell you about the coats, the wardrobe is a gift that keeps on giving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 04:55:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18631252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “Aslan gave us titles to live up to, do you know how hard it is to be gentle? And not to be weak, or waver.”The Professor lends a listening ear and Susan tells her tales of how the past is another country and the present has left them all adrift. The wardrobe in the Kirke house stands empty, although that hadn’t always been the case.prompt: tell me about the coats in the wardrobe (+ my take on The Problem with Susan)





	I've been staring at the sun

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Narnia_Prompts](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Narnia_Prompts) collection. 



> I keep looking at you and it feels like,  
> I’ve been staring at the sun, yeah you hurt my eyes  
> \- Can’t Look Away, Seafret

The storm blew strong and the old tree fell to the ground in a tremendous crash. The wood was salvageable, and Digory thought it would have been an awful shame to just leave it there to rot away. But after the rain had stopped and the wind had died down, he stepped out to survey what was left. Stranger things could have happened, and he half expected them to, but for a tree that magnificent and magical it seemed wrong to have been blown down by mere wind.

Nevertheless, he made sure to dig deeper down into where the roots upturned the muddy earth in soggy clods and took the time to bury the small box with the magic rings away from any prying eyes.

Then Digory took the felled trunk and passed it onto an old friend with deft fingers who took the time to transform it into something new and beautifully carved with hinges that squeaked loudly when opened.

It was only left in the room to collect dust because Digory already had a wardrobe to use in the master bedroom, and Mrs Macready thought it was too fine a piece to be hauled down to the servants quarters for herself. The first time he walked into that room after it had been hauled up the stairs, he couldn’t help but reach out to touch the aged wood. His fingers tingled when he ran them over the scratchy grain, dragging his nails over the dips and whorls on the polished wood. It evoked memories of the rings that made his heart leap in his chest until he felt breathless and had to take a step back.

The wardrobe was special. No matter how many times he went back to visit it over the years and how carefully he inspected every inch of it in dawnlight and daylight, twilight and in the dead of night, it was nothing more than a wardrobe to his eyes. Perhaps it was his own fault, but he couldn’t forget where it came from and the magic it possessed. Even the remnants were treasured to him.

He could have left it at that, satisfied himself with the odd, occasional visit to reminiscence of his one marvellous adventure with Polly, if it were not for the gifts.

How else could he explain the broadsword, shined until gleaming and left inside the wardrobe for him to find not even three months after he moved into the house. So Digory did what he thought was best and hung the broadsword high up on the wall in his study where it caught the golden light with each dawn.

Then there was the wicker basket of ripe apples that he found, only because the door to the wardrobe had swung open and an apple had rolled into the hallway. He hauled it down to the kitchen, ignoring how it tweaked his back, and deposited in front of Mrs Macready without a word. She had the good manners not to question why the fresh crisp fruit was there, only that it tasted delicious so she quickly stewed and doled into jars to keep over winter under his instruction.

He's not sure how it happens or why, but it does. It's not even often. Sometimes decades passed and the memory faded until the inexplicable merged into an unreliable half recalled daydream.

The coats were an entirely different matter however, and only appeared three days before the Pevensie children were due to arrive. Mrs Macready had set about cleaning the house from top to bottom both in preparation of the children and also as a way to secure certain areas from sticky, clumsy fingers. When it came to the room which housed the wardrobe she swept it thoroughly, redraped the dust sheet over the varnished wood, and locked the door before moving onto the kitchen. She stopped by Digory’s study on the way, knowing that the old professor would have been in there since breakfast, and knocked on the doorframe.

“There’s something new in there.”

“Really?” Digory looked up from his newspaper and his eyes drifted over to the open window. A strong breeze ruffled through the room and made the hairs on his arms stand up.

She readjusted the basket of cleaning supplies on her arm and nodded briskly. “I’ll leave it to you.”

“And you’ve locked the door?” He leaned forwards and to her surprise pushed the window open further, taking care to drop a glass paperweight onto his half-composed birthday letter to Polly. 

Macready fished out her ring of keys and handed one over to him. “Of course I have. Supper will be ready at half six.

 

-x-

 

Just as Narnia gave, it took.

Narnia demanded the very best of them and this time round its call brought forth two daughters of Eve and two sons of Adam. It bestowed weapons and asked them to fight for it, gave them crowns and asked for them to lead. They were once innocent children who had passed through the wardrobe door into a frozen world and over time grew to become kings and queens, learning to shoulder the burdens that fell upon them.

-x-

 

She's done her best to forget. To go from being a young girl hiding in the countryside from bombs to a queen and then back again is the most awful kind of change to go through. Invisible to the eye, it is rather wrenching for the heart, and in the blink of a moment all that was suddenly becomes a collection of dust motes in a sunbeam, beautiful and easily disrupted.

Susan forgets it all, even the solid weight of the crown and the ease with which she ended up wearing it with, because what a terrible thing it is to turn and face oneself in the mirror and not see the glint of gold and the respect of an entire kingdom straightening your spine. She takes back her books and her school work, and turns her head towards the things her friends talk about which are not feasts and armies, but lipsticks and nylons and they laugh together from the cusp of childhood.

But Susan soon realises she’d never be able to let go. Her memories act like a bizarre safety net and catch her off guard more often than she’d like. She wholly welcomes it despite all her efforts and these are moments when she surprises herself, and suddenly there's a pain in her chest when reaching for the jam jar and thinks of Mrs Beaver. Or when the snow fell continuously through the night and left her nerves thrumming come morning. Or from only half-recognising the frown on Edward’s because it had been so long since those creases were shallow. And then there were the occasions where Susan held her breath as the sunlight leaked through the windows at work and from out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw a familiar face.

She’d never even breathe a word of it to anyone, not even to herself. She spent her best years drawing arrows and peace treaties between warring factions. She wore the full regalia of a queen, all heavily embroidered skirts that brushed the floors of Cair Paravel, while greeting talking animals and creatures alike who brought their troubles and gifts to her table. There were long years with hard summers and autumns when the whorls of her fingers were inked with the treatises and trade agreements signed.

She became steadfast Susan, a diplomat and walked the tightrope of court with unrivaled grace. The years rolled on and her beauty was lauded in all their neighboring lands who sent their envoys and their gifts, then their suitors and declarations of marriage which she had seriously considered.

Now there are days when the skies turn black and pour with rain and she misses the bus home. Now she sits beside her siblings and their elbows knock against one another at the dining table. Orders are taken from parents with faces that soften and twist in confusion. She elicits more of those looks as the weeks pass and throws herself deeper into her studies to try to root herself in the humdrum of life under grey Finchley skies. When she walks down the grey pavements, her fingers grip around the warmed lipstick tube and she runs her fingernails over the decorative grooves, just for something tangible to hold onto.

 

-x-

 

On her way back from America, Susan takes the long way home and decides to stop by the Professor’s mansion in the countryside. He obliged her parents’ request sent ahead along with the early post and the milk delivery and the ever stern housekeeper is there waiting for her arrival at the train station. With a brief exchange of greetings, the two women haul Susan’s three heavy suitcases into the back of the car.

Mrs Macready shows her up to Digory’s study and when she knocks on the door, she’s welcomed in with little fuss. He sends the housekeeper off for a fresh pot of tea and some biscuits while Susan sinks down into the lumpy cushions opposite him, glad to take the weight off her heels after weeks of travelling and a stormy ocean crossing.

“Ah, Susan! I have to say I was surprised by your letter, and I have to thank you for the interesting stamps. How were your travels?”

“Good. They were good.” Her eyes scanned over the bookshelves before turning back to him. 

“I expect you’re here for something, so please ask away.”

He was as blunt as ever and she would have been flustered if she was the same girl who arrived here before the war. But she wasn't, so she started in the place she thought would make the most sense.

“I wanted to ask you about…how you’ve managed all these years.” He inclined his head and she took it as an invitation to continue, “At first, we didn’t think you’d believe us, how could you understand that we’d been missing for years.”

“I’ve been thinking it over, on the ship. There’s not much else to do apart from walk around the desk and see the sea stretch on for miles and mile. It’s funny Lucy wanted to tell you everything when you asked us what we meant. Edmund didn't.”

Susan paused, and then her words came fast like a torrent unleashed. “I thought it was pointless. It’s an impossible thing to understand, and I was starting to forget myself, convinced myself it wasn't what it was, until we were pulled back again at the train station.”

Digory turned to the shelves on the wall beside him where there was one thick letter folded and refolded with much use. “Yes, I remember Peter’s letter. He explained what happened, how you returned the true heir of Narnia to the throne, King Caspian. Well done, Queen of Narnia. I imagine it takes a great deal of strength to see another sit on your throne.”

She suppressed the urge to shudder and takes in a soft breath, speaking slowly and carefully. “I’ve made my peace with it, not being able to return. I had warning.”

Digory reached out for the teapot and poured out the steaming liquid, letting her add in her own sugar and milk.

“And yet, in some ways how could you ever leave?”

His gaze scrutinised her when she screwed up her face, light wrinkles and distaste mingling together in an undignified way for someone in the prime of life in a brave new world living under a brokered peace worth more than gold.

Susan scoffed, “Aslan gave us titles to live up to, do you know how hard it is to be gentle? And not to be weak, or waver.”

He remained silent, allowing her to sit back and turn the saucer in her hand.

“It was easier in the early days, soon after the battle when everyone flocked to Cair Paravel to see the Sons of Adam and the Daughters of Eve. We all celebrated the end of winter and no one thought it was possible to challenge us, not while the memory of Aslan lingered in the halls.”

She hesitated for a moment, and again, her words spilled out. “Lucy had won everyone’s heart, Peter had taken on the role of High King by slaying the White Queen. And Edmund had been returned to us, all forgiven.”

“Must have been idyllic, for you as young monarchs.”

Digory sipped his own tea, reaching out for another biscuit and Susan continued.

“In a way. We could help rebuild Narnia, the way Narnian were desperate to build themselves. No, it was some years later. We grew older and had to prove ourselves. Children are more naive, more easily forgiven for their mistakes. We learned that there’s a burden of duty that comes with the title. We all struggled with the titles.”

“How so?”

“Lucy…courage came to her easier. Even now, she still…she has it in spades, even for the small things. She sees Narnia behind every curtain, in the sunshine and rain. She must have cried enough to fill the Thames, but when I look at her, she's unshakeable in her faith for it.”

“The adaptability of youth is truly a wonder,” Digory nodded. “So many have lost so much, and yet they meet the world each morning.”

“Narnia left its mark. She still talks to squirrels and cats in the street. Our mother despairs.”

Susan rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the spark behind them and Digory could see the fondness there.

“And your other siblings?”

“Peter…” Her eyes flickered to the window and then back to the old man, “Oh, Professor, if being gentle was a constant daily battle, then can you imagine what being magnificent is like? I catch Peter now, caught between two worlds and he can't help himself. He had the highest responsibility, the highest power, and now…”

Digory frowned as Susan continued, her the floodgates opened.

“Now he reaches for things out of arm's reach. I've seen it when there's inches of space between his fingertips and the top shelf. He surprises himself, and then just he rocks back down on his heels.”

Her mouth hangs open, and her eyes dart away as if she's told a terrible secret, committed a betrayal. The word filters down into his thoughts and delivers itself, _betrayal._ But the old Professor sits in the silence she's left behind and continues to listen without passing judgement.

It reminds her of Edmund, who was perhaps the only one who understood what it was like for her. He was the Just, a balancer of knowledge and consequences, Peter's most trusted advisor. It was him who sat over trials and passed judgement and his word was the last word in so many cases. He knew what it was like to now walk into a room and have his words count for very little, like her own.

Susan flexed her fingers over the rim of the saucer, rolling the fine china edge along the bones underneath and wishing it was a bowstring to be pulled taut.

It wasn't. She drank more of her tea to fight the dryness in her mouth and carried on unburdening herself for the first time in months. 

“Edmund? Well, being just is a fine balance, Professor. He took his lessons from the moment he turned on us and kept learning from them. I watched Aslan die on the Stone Table for my brother, but Edmund was the one who lived with the knowledge every day, that it all happened because of him.”

She looked over at the bookshelf and a soft bubble of a memory encroached on her of a library ten times the size in the Kirke house holding books as old as the kingdom they described and a wealth more priceless, with her and Edmund arguing over maps rolled out and held open by empty flagons and their crowns. Susan blinked it away and turned back to window.

“He woke up every day with mercy and with sacrifice while he was Edmund the Just, and it'll be the same tomorrow morning too as Edmund Pevensie.”

Susan shook her head and stuffed a biscuit into her mouth, chewing up the sweet crumbly shortbread and gulping down more of the cooling tea, and Digory allowed the silence to fill up the large study along with the late afternoon sunshine. He watched as she turned the almost empty teacup in her hand, wearing a deeply thoughtful look no young woman her age would have worn. Despite the many losses and hardships their country had seen, this was tainted with something beyond the enduring hardships her compatriots experienced. 

For Susan, she was a hundred miles away again, picturing it, in her mind’s eye. It was the four of them in the dim kitchen light, surrounded by a broken London with their family finally together again, and constant struggle to find the children they once were and are again.

“I think… it was nothing but cruel. We were called back to a Narnia that aged without us, for so long without us. We came back to being names only, a golden age to be remembered fondly without any breath of life. Our friends were dead and the talking animals had hidden themselves again, even the land had shifted and been reshaped.”

She speaks again, plainly and calmly, it jolts Digory out of his own contemplation. “I met a talking animal once. His name was Philip. A Horse.”

There was a faint and genuine smile on Digory’s face and Susan returned it without remorse. She couldn't deny herself that, not here in the company of a friend of Narnia.

“Without you. You said that Narnia aged without you.” Digory repeated after a little while. “It also existed without you. And it called you for a purpose, which you fulfilled, Queen Susan.”

She breathed in deep, settling herself, and the Professor chortled. The sound was raspy and smothered with a cough.

“It takes time. The Knowing.”

Susan nods back slowly.

They drain the teapot and finish the plate of shortbread, and Mrs Macready comes back to refill both as Susan spent the rest of the afternoon talking and Digory offered his counsel in return.

“I do have one question… if you’ll indulge an old man?”

“Of course, you’ve listened to me for hours.”

“What happened to the coats?” Digory asked, “Four coats appeared days before you children arrived. But when I visited the wardrobe after, it was empty.”

“Coats?” Susan laughed as she realised what he meant. “The fur coats?”

“Yes. What happen-”

A knock on the door interrupted them, and Mrs Macready called them down for dinner.

“We'd better go, but I can explain over dinner.” Susan stood and brushed out the creases in her shirt.

Digory hauled himself out of his chair and gestured towards the door. 

 

-x-

 

She told him about the coats, how they kept them warm in the darkest, coldest nights of Narnian winter while they searched for Edmund. How inexplicably heavy they got when waterlogged, almost dragging poor Lucy to a watery grave. How even though they had been shed and left behind in the care of the newly sprouted grass and slowly awakening wood nymphs, some kind Deer brought the coats to the castle in time for the first Spring Feast.

It took her a few minutes to think about when she had last seen Lucy's coat. Three, or maybe four winters in and the girl had grown taller, gangly and long armed but not quite as tall as Susan. She was so much more accepting of what Narnia was and what it could be. She took to her queenly duties like a duck to water with her natural desire to help and her unbounded curiosity. The young monarch was charm personified, with a smile on her lips and enough hope to wrangle a desperate situation into a smoothed-out win.

From the moment she was crowned, and some may have argued from the moment she set foot in the winter-worn hinterlands, she was the queen who held all of Narnia’s creatures closest to her heart, and they did the same in turn. Queen Lucy was the one who listened to all their problems, and it was her knowledge of betrayal and loss that gave her the insight to take on that role.

Lucy was one to weather things; Mr Tumnus’s betrayal had come as a shock and Edmund’s was like a slap in the face, but she had learnt there were reasons behind actions in the same way Aslan had walked to the Stone Tables without protest or fear. It was Lucy who learnt that once something was understood, it could be known, and courage could be summoned to face it.

Father Christmas had given her a vial of medicine to cure all ills while tucking a sharp dagger into the other hand. Although the first few years passed and the vial grew smaller in her hand, and the hilt of the dagger was rubbed smooth, she continued to keep them close. Narnia was a land of delight and wonder. It renewed itself with the dawn of each day, and she loved it fiercely in a way Susan never could.

Susan told the Professor all of this and more. She paused to recollect how Lucy had taken her rooms in the same tower as her, just opposite and along the corridor. From her own windows, Lucy could see the wide sea and whenever she left her window open at night as the nights grew longer and colder, the sea mist would roll into her room and bring with it the sharp smell of salt and leave heavy layers of frost over the damp window casements.

And every winter as the weather turned from cold to icy, she would pad down the corridor and into Susan’s rooms to sit on the window ledge and let her slippers feet brush against the stone floor and watch a steady stream of Narnians make their way to the doors of Cair Parcel. More often than not she would call out who was arriving, but sometimes she'd just sit there wrapped in the coat and watch the snow fall.

There was a particular morning which Susan suddenly remembered where Lucy rolled her eyes and slid off the window ledge to open up the wardrobe doors, one by one. After making her way around the room, she finally found what she was looking for and pulled down the thick fur coat. She pulled it on and let the comfortable weight of it hang off her shoulders, feeling instantly warmer, although her wrists remained cold having outgrown the sleeves.

Susan remembered how Lucy stretched up again and pulled down a second coat which filled up her arms. She shuffled across to her sister’s bed, enveloped in a soft warmth and dropped the larger coat on her sister’s head. Susan had brushed off the blankets and sat up to tug at the shorter sleeves of her sister’s coat, but Lucy brushed her hands away laughing.

It was still as clear as a bell in Susan's memory, and even now she was still wistful about reaching for the old familiar coat and letting her fingers sink into the matted fur in a too cold bedroom as the first snowflakes of winter fell outside.

“But we left them behind, in our wardrobes.” The smile lingered on her face as she reached for a coffee mug Mrs Macready had left on the table.

“In the castle?” Digory asked as he leant forwards to push the coffee pot over to her. 

Susan smiled, “It's funny, I know where those two coats are exactly. Now Peter's, I'm not too sure about, but you'll be interested to know that it was his idea to wear our coats during our first winter festival.”

“A festival?”

“Some of the lords and ladies had mentioned that we should do more to celebrate the winter...being the first since the White Witch. They felt that Narnians needed something to look forward to, without having to face the ghosts in their past.”

Susan poured out her coffee and stirred it.

“Peter thought we should hold a public ceremony at Cair Paravel, and give Father Christmas presents of our own, as thanks for his help the previous year.”

“But?” He asked, seeing her hesitation.

“We had taken on so much responsibility. And there were so many traditions, right from the very moment we stepped up on the dais and bent our heads to Aslan. He had just turned eighteen. You should have seen him, Professor. He understood quicker than the rest of us, what being a touchstone for Narnians really meant.”

She sipped at her coffee and shook her head, recalling how quickly Peter had realised he had fighters and animals looking to him to keep them feeling secure. They looked to him to keep away hunger and fear, and to stop the cold nipping at their doors in the winter. It was never going to be a single battle or enemy. Aslan had left a boy in command of his kingdom and had his confidence only finally took root once experience of ruling had set in and the arrogance of youth was forever being wrestled and tamed.

“Uneasy lies the head.” Digory echoed, the words had been her own years ago and Ed had elbowed her when Peter’s face paled and then turned green.

“He always said that the crown and robes were as heavy as the day he first wore them. That sometimes he still felt like a child playing dress up.”

“Peter and I have spoke, a little, after you left for America. He had trouble settling back at school, and was finding the trivialities of life grating.” He saw the alarm on her face, and then watched it dissolve away.

“He’s doing better now. I got a letter from him, the school appointed him Head Boy when we go back in September. Luckily Edmund’s still there for advice, and he's not as lost.”

“How so?”

“He wasn’t told he couldn’t go back.” Susan replied bluntly and then felt her face turn red.

“Ah, I see.”

“No, I mean Ed always remembered what it was like before we came. He remembered it better. This house, you, leaving London behind.”

She smiled widely and her eyes brightened after a moment. “He gave his coat away to a mother Fox whose den had caved in from the winter snow. Without even being asked, he helped build up a new one, set it on the floor and helped move her kits onto it.”

The Professor doesn’t ask more about Edmund, and Susan doesn’t offer up anymore of his secrets. Those were told in the dead of night on the basement staircase with mugs of boiling tea that scalded her when his hands shook. He had told her how he was haunted. That the taste of rose and powdered sugar lingered on his tongue ever since the moment he lied about the wardrobe that wasn’t a wardrobe.

That night they sat together in the darkness and he finally came to the realisation that it was fear; fear of bombs falling down on top of houses and his family. That it had been a gut wrenching memory of penny sweets jammed in his pockets paid for by his mother which made his stomach lurch for the briefest of moments when that strange wintery woman promised him Turkish Delight and a throne by her side. It had all come from a place of childish hurt and he finally, after too long, had the presence of mind to forgive himself, a little.

Susan also doesn’t speak of how her youngest brother had repentance nestled at the heart of his choices, not guilt, and how as his wit quickened, the one-time fickle traitor grew into an endless well of loyalty who understood the consequences of actions and was willing to take it upon himself, because he never was able to shake off knowing the value of his life and the sacrifice Aslan made for it. She already knew he’d grow up again wiser for it, that in his second, more normal and longer life he’d have a chance to move beyond it.

“And what of you?”

“I’m not sure where mine is. It’s probably still in my chambers. Waiting in the wardrobe.”

She smiled again, more broadly, because it was one way to keep away the other thoughts that lurked in the corners of her mind. Her jealousy that Edmund and Lucy would be able to return. The fear that she would forget. The anger of years of hard work and sacrifices lost. These were all ugly and she hated that they rose up to greet her and waited for her to push them away.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” She sighed and drained the rest of her coffee. “I told myself that maybe my job was the hardest, having to balance myself against the title and against my family. Susan the Gentle. And that if I ever felt small and doubted myself, then no one would be any wiser come morning, because I had my family with me.”

She slid back her chair and stood, leaving Digory to ponder on what he had learnt.

“Quite right.” He called after her, and wished her a good night.

She left in the morning feeling lighter to catch the first train after a quick breakfast the three of them shared. Susan doesn’t think often about her detour but after the train crash happens and she is left alone in the house, all her memories swirl together and rise up to haunt her. While the rest of Finchley carries on outside the front door, she sits in the dark at the kitchen table to sift through her thoughts.

One week after the funerals, she opens the front door to pick up the milk bottles and watches the postman fumble with a large parcel. With an apologetic smile, he hands it over along with three more sympathy cards. Susan leaves the cards unopened on the table and sits down to slowly tear at the brown paper wrappings and string. Her fingers hit the soft fabric first and then the folded letter. She reads it numbly once, twice, and gets halfway through the third when her eyes start fill with tears and there’s nothing left for her to do except pull the old fur coat towards her and bury her fingers and face in the soft material.

Susan keeps the coat and wears it for as long as it fits. When she outgrows it for the second time, she decides to hang it in her own wardrobe. Each year when the first snow falls and sticks to the ground, she opens her bedroom window wide. Then she takes out the fur coat out, stands on a chair and hangs it from the curtain rail where it is buffeted gently by bitter winter winds.

Digory Kirke's last letter is also kept and added to a large box of things she decided to hold on, along with one of Lucy’s hair clips, Edmund’s second flashlight, and Peter’s favourite tie.

 

-x-

 

_Dear Susan,_

_When you visited some time ago as a young woman who had much to unburden about her time abroad this old man with little experience of such climes was honoured and fascinated to listen to her._

_It made me think of stepping into the unknown and that brief jaunt of terrifying bravery and what Polly and, mostly, I ended up causing._

_The birth of a new world is a great endeavor, undertaken by those who I remain in awe with. I am old enough and wise enough to know that as a child I meddled with things beyond my own knowledge, but now I am aware that there is much more than lions, rings, talking horses and bells that signal the end of worlds._

_Perhaps I am becoming nostalgic?_

_Regardless, as we both know, it is almost impossible to walk along the same path to return there. The Wood between the Worlds remains lost to me, as was the Wardrobe to you. However, not everything is put back into place. Included with this letter is something that I came across after a long time, an old fur coat, found by Mrs Macready on her cleaning rounds. I believe it belongs to you._

_Now I shall leave my reminiscing behind and wish you well._

_With much fondness,_

_Digory Kirke_


End file.
